About the Phipps' home hung now the atmosphere of expectancy. It had so hung for several weeks, ever since the first letter to Cousin Gussie had been posted, but now there was in it a different quality, a quality of brightness, of cheer. Martha seemed more like herself, the capable, adequate self which Galusha had met when he staggered into that house out of the rain and wind of his first October night on Cape Cod. She was more talkative, laughed more frequently, and bustled about her work with much, if not all, of her former energy. She, herself, was quite aware of the change and commented upon it rather apologetically in one of her talks with her lodger.
“It's ridiculous,” she said, “and I know it, but I can't help it. I'm as excited as a child and almost as sure everything is goin' to come out right as—well, as Primmie is. I wasn't so at all in the beginnin'; when we first sent that letter to your cousin I didn't think there was much more than one chance in a thousand that he would take any interest in Wellmouth Development stock. But since you got back from your Boston cruise, Mr. Bangs, I've felt altogether different. What the Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot folks said wasn't any too definite; when I sit right down and think about it I realize it wasn't. But it was encouraging, real encouraging. And that bit of real encouragement has made me over, like an old dress. Which reminds me that I've got to be makin' over some of MY old dresses pretty soon, or summer'll be here and I won't have a thing fit to wear. I declare,” she added, with a laugh, “this is the first time I've even thought about clothes since last fall. And when a woman forgets to be interested in dressmakin' she's pretty far gone.... Why, what makes you look so sorrowful? Is anything wrong?”
Galusha replied that nothing whatever was wrong; there was, he said, no reason in the world why he should appear sorrowful. Yet, this answer was not the exact truth; there were reasons, and speeches such as Miss Martha's reminded him of them. They awoke his uneasy conscience to the fear that the encouragement she found in his report from Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot was almost entirely due to his interpretation of that report and not to the facts behind it. However, as she must on no account guess this to be the case, he smiled and assumed an air more than ever carefree.
One afternoon, when, on his way home after an unusually lengthy walk, he stopped at the post office, he found that the Phipps' mail had already been delivered.
“Zach Bloomer stopped along in and took it,” explained Miss Tamson Black, the postmaster's sister-in-law. “I told him I presumed likely you'd be here after it yourself pretty soon, but it didn't make no difference. He said—but maybe I better not tell you.”
“Oh, yes—no doubt,” observed Galusha, who was, as usual, paying little attention.
Tamson, plainly disappointed at his lack of curiosity, elevated her thin nose.
“Well,” she observed, “what he SAID was that, fur's things bein' here was concerned, Christmas would be here, give it time enough. Pretty sassy kind of talk,Icall it, but maybe you ain't so partic'lar, Mr. Bangs.”
“Dear me! Of course. Well, well!... Oh, were there any letters for—ah—for me, may I ask?”
“Why, yes, there was, two of 'em. That's what made me cal'late you might like to get 'em first yourself. I knew you didn't get letters very often, Mr. Bangs; that is, I've noticed you ain't since I've been helpin' in this office. Anyhow, 'most anybody would rather get their own mail private than have Zach Bloomer cartin' it from land-knows-where to never-and-gone, smellin' it all up with old tobacco pipes and fish or whatever else he carries 'round in his pockets. Course I don't mean he lugs fish around in his pocket, 'tain't likely—He, he, he—but that old coat of his always smells like a—like a porgie boat. And I don't know's I mean that those letters of yours were any more 'special private than common; anyhow, both envelopes was in MALE handwritin'—He, he, he! But I noticed one was stamped from way out in—in Nevada, seems if 'twas, so—”
“Eh?” Galusha came to life with astonishing quickness. “From—from Nevada, did you say?”
“Um-hm. I remember it real plain now. You see, it kind of caught my eye as I was sortin.' We don't never get much mail from Nevada—not in this office we don't never hardly. So when I see... Well, my good land!”
The exclamation was caused by the unceremonious suddenness of Mr. Bangs' exit. He was well across the road by the time Miss Black reached the window.
“My good land!” exclaimed Tamson again. Later she told her brother-in-law that she cal'lated that Nevada letter was maybe more private than she cal'lated first, and that she bet you she was goin' to look pretty hard at the handwritin' on the NEXT one that come.
Primmie, apparently, had been watching through the kitchen window for Galusha to appear. At any rate, she opened the door for him. Her mouth opened also, but he, for perhaps the first time in their acquaintanceship, spoke first.
“I know—I know, Primmie,” he said, hastily; “or if I don't know you can tell me later on. Ah—please don't delay me now.”
Primmie was struggling between surprise and disappointment.
“Well,” she observed, as the little man hurriedly shed his hat and coat; “well, all right, Mr. Bangs. Only Zach, he told me to be sure and tell you, and tell you how sorry he was that it happened, and that he can't exactly figger out just how it did come to happen, neither.”
“Eh?” Galusha paused, with one arm still in the sleeve of his overcoat. “Happen? What has happened to—ah—Mr. Bloomer?”
“Ain't nothin' happened to him. 'Twas him that made it happen to your letter. And THAT letter of all letters! You see, Zach he don't exactly remember when 'twas he got it from the post office, but it must have been much as a week ago, sartin sure. Anyhow, when he took out the lighthouse mail he left this letter in the pocket, and to-day, just now, when he got them other letters of yours and put 'em in the same pocket, he found the first one. And when I see that 'Cabot, What-d'ye-call-it and Cabot' name printed out right on the envelope and it come over me that 'twas THAT letter he'd forgot and had been totin' 'round with him, 'WELL,' says I. 'My Lord of Isrul!' I says—”
“Primmie! Primmie, stop! Stop—please! And tell me: Where are those letters?”
“Hey? I was goin' to tell you.Iput 'em right here on the dinin' room table, but Miss Martha she carted 'em off upstairs to your bedroom. Said she presumed likely you'd want to open 'em by yourself.Idon't see why—”
“Hush! Hush! Where is—ah—Miss Phipps?”
“She's in the settin' room. Told me not to disturb her, she wanted to be alone. I—”
Galusha hastened away, leaving the excited Miss Cash still talking. From the foot of the stairs he caught a glimpse of Martha in the chair by the front window of the sitting room, looking out. She must have heard him, but she did not turn her head. Nor did he speak to her. Time enough for that when he had read what was in those letters.
There they were, three of them, upon his bureau. He picked up the one on top. It bore upon the envelope the words “National Institute, Washington, D. C.,” and was, he knew, merely a monthly report. Usually such reports were of great interest to him; this one was not. He had really important matters to claim his attention.
The second letter was, obviously, that which the forgetful Zacheus had carried about with him for a week. In the corner was the Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot name. He tore it open. An oblong slip of paper fell to the floor. He did not even stoop to pick this up, for there was a letter, too. It began:
“Prof. Galusha Bangs, East Wellmouth, Mass.
“DEAR SIR:
“Pursuant to your instructions in our conversation of recent date I am enclosing check representing your share of the new Tinplate re-issue, sale of rights, transfer of old stock, bonus, etc. The transfer has been, as I told you I felt sure it would be, very advantageous and profitable to stockholders like yourself. The amount due you, as shown in statement attached, is—”
Galusha read no further. What did he care for Tinplate, profits, business, or anything like that! There was not a word in the letter concerning Wellmouth Development. It was a bitter disappointment.
But there was the third letter, the letter from Nevada. He opened that. The first page which he looked at was that bearing the signature. Yes, the letter was from George L. Thomas, and George L. Thomas was Cousin Gussie's private secretary. At last!
The letter shook in Galusha's fingers as he began to read. Mr. Thomas was glad to hear from him, glad to learn that he was in better health, etc.... All right enough, this beginning, but not at all important. Thomas also felt sure that he, Professor Bangs, would be grateful to know that Mr. Cabot's condition was, so his physician seemed to think, steadily improving. The improvement was slow, of course, which was to be expected, but... a long paragraph here which Galusha skipped. He was highly pleased to know that Cousin Gussie was better, but at present that was sufficient; he could not waste time in reading details of the convalescence. WHY didn't the man get down to business?
Ah, here it was! Mr. Thomas wrote:
“In your letter to Mr. Cabot I note your inquiry concerning the stock of the Wellmouth Development Company, its desirability as an investment, the likelihood of present sale, and so on. I know nothing of the matter personally, and am not in a position to ascertain at the present time. Speaking in a general way, however, and with my only knowledge of the facts in the case that supplied by your letter, I should suggest that your friend keep his stock and await developments. I am quite sure that a forced sale—if such a sale could now be made at any price, which I doubt—would involve the sacrifice of almost the entire amount invested. I should suggest holding on and waiting.”
Galusha passed his shaking hand across his perspiring forehead.
“Oh, dear me!” he said aloud.
“This would be my advice,” went on the letter, “but if you wish a more positive answer I suggest your writing Mr. Minor at our Boston office. He will be very glad to look into the matter for you, I am sure, although I am practically certain his views will agree with mine. Of course, as you will understand, it is quite impossible to mention your inquiry to Mr. Cabot. He is here to regain his health, which is still very far from normal, his doctor is with him, and the one word which is positively forbidden is 'Business.' Mr. Cabot is supposed to forget that there is such a thing. By the way he spoke of you only the other day, and jokingly said he wondered how mummies and quahaugs were mixing. The fact that he is beginning to joke once more we all consider most encouraging....”
A paragraph or two more of this sort of thing and then Mr. Thomas' signature. Galusha stared at the letter dully. This—this was what he and Martha Phipps had awaited so long! This was the outcome of his brilliant idea which was to save the Phipps' home... and its owner's peace of mind... and Primmie... and ....
Oh, dear me! dear me!
Galusha walked slowly across the room to the chair by the window, and, sitting down, continued to stare hopelessly at the letter in his hand. He read it for the second time, but this rereading brought no comfort whatever. Rather, it served to bring home to him the hard realities of the whole wretched affair. Cousin Gussie's interest was what he had banked on, and that interest was absolutely unapproachable. To write Minor at the Boston office was a possibility, of course, but, in his present frame of mind Galusha felt no hope that such a proceeding would help. Thomas had written what amounted to that very thing; Thomas was “practically certain” that Minor's views would agree with his. And, besides, to write Minor meant another long wait, and Martha Phipps must be very close to her limit of waiting. How could he summon the courage to descend to the sitting room and tell her that she must prepare for another period of waiting, with almost certain disappointment at the end?
A temperament like Galusha Bangs' is capable of soaring to the heights and descending to the depths. Just now the elevator was going down, and down it continued to go to the very subcellar. It was dark in that subcellar, not a ray of light anywhere. Galusha realized now, or thought he did, that all his great scheme for helping Martha to dispose of her Development shares had been based upon nothing substantial, nothing but rainbow-tinted hopes which, in turn, were based upon nothing but wishes. Omitting the hopes and wishes, what was there left? Just what the president of the Trumet Trust Company had told Martha and what Raish Pulcifer, when angered into truthtelling, had told him. That is, that the shares of the Wellmouth Development Company might be worth something some day, but that now they were worth nothing, because no one would buy them.
Yes... yes, that was the truth.... But how could he go down to the sitting room and tell Martha Phipps that truth, having already told her so much that was quite different?
If she would only let him lend her the five thousand dollars, or whatever it was. He did not know how much Cousin Gussie was taking care of for him at present, but there had been a large sum at the time of Aunt Clarissa's death. He remembered that the figures had quite frightened him then. He had not thought much about them since, because they did not interest him. He always had enough for his needs and more than enough, and dividends, and interests, and investments and all such things bored him and made him nervous. But, now that he WAS interested in an investment—Martha Phipps' investment—it brought home to him the undisputable fact that he, Galusha Bangs, had plenty of money to lend, if he wished to lend it.
And if Cousin Gussie, or Cousin Gussie's representatives, would let him have it for such a purpose! Cousin Gussie always made such an unpleasant disturbance when he expressed a desire for any of his money, asked so many embarrassing questions as to what was to be done with it, and the like. If he should go now and ask for five thousand dollars to lend Martha Phipps, what...
But Martha Phipps would not accept a loan, anyway. She had told him that very thing, and he knew her well enough by this time to know she meant what she said.
Yet there remained the imminent and dreadful question: How, how, HOW could he go down to where she was sitting waiting and tell her that her hopes, hopes which he had raised, were based solely upon the vaporings of an optimistic donkey?
In his wrathful disgust with that donkey he shifted angrily in his chair and his foot struck a bit of paper upon the floor. It rustled and the rustle attracted his attention. Absently he stepped and picked up the paper. It was the slip which had fallen from the Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot letter and was a check drawn to his order for fourteen thousand, three hundred and ten dollars and thirty-eight cents, his share of the Tinplate “melon.”
Fifteen more minutes passed before Mr. Bangs came down to the sitting room, but when he did he came in a great hurry. He dashed into the apartment and announced his intention of starting for Boston at once.
“And—and if you will be so kind as to let me have those—ah—shares of yours, Miss Martha,” he said.
Martha looked at him. She had been rather pale when he entered, but now the color rushed to her face.
“Shares?” she repeated. “Do you mean—”
“Those—ah—Development shares of yours—yes. If you will be good enough to let me take them with me—”
“Take them with you?... Oh, Mr. Bangs, you don't mean you have heard from your cousin and that he is goin' to—”
“Yes—ah—yes,” broke in Galusha, hastily. “I have heard. I am to—that is, I must take the shares with me and go to Boston at once. If you will be willing to entrust them to me, Miss Martha.”
“I'll get 'em this minute.” She started toward the stairs, but paused and turned.
“Is it really settled, Mr. Bangs?” she asked, as if scarcely daring to believe in the possibility. “Are they really goin' to buy that Wellmouth stock of mine?”
“Why—why—” Galusha was yawing badly, but he clutched the helm and kept on the course; “I—ah—hope so, Miss Martha, I hope so.”
“And pay me—pay me MONEY for it?”
“I presume so. I hope so. If you will—”
“I declare, it doesn't seem possible! Who, for mercy sakes, is goin' to buy it? Mr. Cabot, himself?”
He had been expecting this and was prepared for it. He had rehearsed his answer many times before coming downstairs. He held up a protesting hand.
“I am very sorry,” he said, “but—but, you see, that is a—ah—secret, I understand. Of course, they did not write me who was to buy the stock and so—and so—”
“And so you don't know. Well, it doesn't make a bit of difference, really. The Lord knows I shouldn't care so long as I sell it honestly and don't cheat anybody. And a big house like Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot ought to know what they're doin' when they buy, or let any of their customers buy. I'll get the certificate this very minute, Mr. Bangs.”
She hastened up the stairs. Galusha wiped his forehead and breathed heavily. There was a knock on the door leading to the dining room; it opened and Primmie's head appeared.
“I heard her go upstairs,” she whispered, hoarsely. “Is it all right, Mr. Bangs? Was there good news in that What-you-call-it-Bancroft letter, Mr. Bangs? Was there?”
“Go away, Primmie! Go AWAY!”
“I'm a-goin'. But was there?”
“Yes—ah—no—I—I guess so.”
“Lord everlastin' of Isrul! My savin' soul!”
Martha's footsteps on the stairs caused the head to disappear and the door to close. Miss Phipps appeared, her hand clasping a highly ornate document.
“Here's the certificate,” she said, breathlessly. “I'm so upset and excited I don't know hardly whether I'm in the channel or hard aground, as father used to say, but I've signed my name on the back. Once when I sold two shares of railroad stock he left me I had to sign on the back there. I HOPE I've done it in the right place.”
Galusha declared the signature to be quite right, yes. As a matter of fact, he could not have told for certain that there was a signature there. He crammed the certificate into his pocket.
“Oh, my sakes!” protested Martha, “you aren't goin' to just put it loose into that pocket, are you? Don't you think it ought to go in your—your wallet, or somewhere?”
“Eh? Why—why, I presume it had.... Dear me, yes.... It would be a—a joke if I lost it, wouldn't it?”
“A JOKE! Well, it wouldn't be my notion of a joke, exactly.”
“Oh, dear, dear! Did I say 'joke'? I didn't mean that it would actually be—ah—humorous, of course. I meant... I meant.... Really, I don't think I know what I meant.”
“I don't believe you do. Mr. Bangs, I truly think you are more excited about all this than I am, and all on my account. What can I ever say—or do—to—”
“Please, please, Miss Martha! Dear me, dear me, DON'T speak in that way. It's so—ah—nonsensical, you know. Now if—if I may have my coat and—ah—cap—”
“Cap! Goodness gracious, you weren't plannin' to wear that old cap, earlaps and all, to Boston, were you? And—mercy me! I didn't think of it until this minute—the train doesn't go for 'most two hours.”
She burst out laughing and, because she was overwrought and a trifle hysterical, she laughed a good deal. Galusha laughed even longer than she did, not because he was hysterical, but because laughing was very much easier and safer than answering embarrassing questions.
When it really was time to leave for the railroad station and Galusha, NOT wearing the earlapped cap, but hatted and garbed as became his rank and dignity, was standing on the stone step by the outside door, she said:
“Now do be careful, Mr. Bangs.”
“Yes—yes, I will, I promise you. I shall keep one hand in my pocket, holding the pocketbook with the certificate in it, until I get to the office. I shall think of nothing else.”
“Mercy me, think of SOMETHIN' else, please! Think of yourself when you're goin' across those Boston streets or you'll be run over. I declare, I don't know as I ought to let you go.”
“Oh, I shall be quite safe, quite. But, really,” he added, with a puzzled smile, “I can't tell you how odd this seems. When I was a boy my Aunt Clarissa, I remember, used to caution me about—about crossing the streets, and so on. It makes me feel quite young again to have you do it, Miss Martha. I assure you it does.”
Martha regarded him gravely.
“Hasn't anybody since ever told you to be careful?” she asked; “anybody since your aunt died, I mean?”
“Why, no, I think not. I presume,” he added, with the air of one suggesting a happy explanation, “I presume no one has—ah—been sufficiently interested. It would have been peculiar if they had been, of course.”
“Hum!... Well, I hope you won't think I am impudent for remindin' you to look out.”
“Oh, no, indeed. It is very nice of you to take the trouble. I like it, really I do.”
The office of Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot was closed when his train reached Boston, so he went to a hotel and remained there over-night. But he was on hand at the banking office early the next morning. In the interval he had time for more reflection and, as a result, he determined not to go to Mr. Barbour with his business. The fear that knowledge of what he was about to do would reach Cousin Gussie's ears was strong upon him. Doubtless it was a fact that he had a right to do what he pleased with his own money, but it was also a fact that Cousin Gussie seemed to think he had no such right. Barbour was the Cabot secretary, or assistant secretary, so decidedly it was best not to go to Barbour.
It was Minor whom he saw as he entered the banking house and to Minor he divulged his business. Taking from his pocketbook the Tinplate check, he asked if he might have it—ah—broken up, so to speak.
“You see,” he explained, “I want to get—ah—five thousand dollars.”
Minor appeared rather puzzled at first, and Mr. Bangs' tangled and nervous explanations did not seem to enlighten him greatly. At last, however, he caught the idea.
“I see,” he said. “You don't want to deposit and draw against it; you want two checks instead of one. One check for five thousand and the other for the balance.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” assented Galusha, much relieved. “That is it, exactly. I am very much obliged to you—indeed I am—yes.”
Minor took him to one of the windows and introduced him to the clerk at the desk behind it.
“Give Mr. Bangs whatever he wants,” he said.
Galusha explained. The clerk asked how he would have the five-thousand-dollar check made out.
“In your own name?” he asked.
Mr. Bangs reflected. “Why—ah—” he stammered, “I should prefer itin—ah—some other name, if possible. I should prefer that my name wasnot connected with it, if you don't mind.”
“In the name of the person you intend paying it to?” inquired the clerk.
Galusha reflected again. If Martha Phipps' name were written on that check it would be possible that, some day or other, Cousin Gussie might see it. And if he saw it, questions would be asked, embarrassing questions.
“No-o,” he said, hesitatingly; “no, I think I should not care to have her—that is, to have that person's name appear, either. Isn't there some way by which the sum could be paid without any one's name appearing? A check to—to—oh, dear me! why CAN'T I think of it?”
“To bearer, you mean?”
“That's it, that's it. A check to bearer would be very satisfactory, very satisfactory, indeed. Thank you very much.”
The clerk, who was a painstaking young man, destined to rise in his profession, inspected the odd individual outside the railing.
“A check to bearer is almost the same as cash,” he said. “If you should lose it, it would be negotiable—practically the money itself, or pretty near it.”
Galusha started. He looked radiantly happy.
“That's it!” he exclaimed. “That's it, of course. Thank you for the suggestion. The money will be the very thing. It will be such a delightful surprise. And there will be no one's name upon it at all. I will take the money, of course.”
It took some time to convince the astonished clerk that Mr. Bangs actually wished five thousand dollars in currency, but he finally was convinced.
“How will you have it?” he asked. “Small bills or large?”
Galusha apparently did not care. Any denominations would be quite satisfactory, he affirmed. So, when the transaction was finished, and he left the Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot office, it was with a new check for nine thousand, three hundred and ten dollars and thirty-eight cents in his pocketbook and in his trousers' pocket a roll of bills as thick as his wrist. By way of modification to this statement, it may be well to explain that Galusha Bangs' wrists, considered AS wrists, were by no means thick.
The clerk stared after him as he departed and a fellow clerk paused to ask questions.
“Who was the old guy?” he inquired.
“Name's Bangs.”
“What is he?”
“A nut,” was the reply, given with the assurance of absolute conviction.
The “nut” traveled back to East Wellmouth upon the afternoon train and, back once more in the Phipps' sitting room, “shelled out” upon the center table. Martha stared at the heap of bills and caught her breath with a gasp.
Galusha deposited the last bank note upon the table. “There!” he exclaimed, with satisfaction; “that is all, I believe. And I have actually gotten it here—all of it. I am quite sure I haven't lost a—a penny. Dear me, that is a very remarkable thing to do—for me to do, I mean.”
Miss Phipps did not answer and, turning, he saw that she was sitting in the rocking-chair, her hand to her forehead. Her face was white.
“Dear me!” he exclaimed, in alarm. “Miss Martha, are you ill?”
Still she did not answer and, very much frightened, he hastened to the door, opened it, and shouted for Primmie. The summons for her handmaiden acted as a complete restorative. Martha came to life at once.
“WHAT in the world are you callin' Primmie for?” she demanded. “I don't want her. I wouldn't have her see all that.... Oh, good heavens and earth!”
Primmie was already in the room. She, as Mr. Bangs would have described it, bounced in.
“Yes'm—I mean yes, sir,” was her salutation. “Here I be.... Oh, my savin' soul of Isrul!”
She had seen the mound of money upon the table. Two minutes later Martha and her lodger were again alone in the sitting room. Primmie had been, gently but firmly, escorted to outer darkness and the door closed behind her. She was still asking questions and calling for her ransomed spirit and the ruler of Israel; they could hear her do so even through the door. The exclamations died away in the direction of the kitchen. Miss Phipps, who had done escort duty, turned toward Galusha and ruefully shook her head.
“I GUESS there isn't anybody I'd rather should not have been here just now than Primmie Cash,” she observed. “If there is I can't think of their names. Mr. Bangs, I know you meant well, because you couldn't mean any other way, but would you mind tellin' me WHY you called for her?”
Galusha blinked in bewildered fashion behind his spectacles.
“Why—why,” he stammered, “you—you see—why, I spoke to you several times and you did not answer—and you were so pale, I thought—I thought—”
“You thought I was sick and so you sung out for Primmie. Humph! that's a good deal like jumpin' into the well to get out of the rain. But there, never mind. So I looked pale and didn't answer when you spoke? Do you wonder? Mr. Bangs,” she moved to the table and laid a hand, which trembled a good deal, upon the pile of bills, “is this money really mine?”
“Yes—oh, yes, indeed. It is yours, of course.”
“All of it? It doesn't seem possible. How much is there here?”
He told her. She lifted the topmost bills from the heap and reverently laid them down again.
“Five thousand dollars!” she repeated. “It's like—it's like somethin' in a dream, or a book, isn't it? I can hardly believe I am Martha Phipps. So they did think Wellmouth Development was worth somethin', after all. And they paid—why, Mr. Bangs, they paid the full price, didn't they! Twenty dollars a share; as much as father paid in the first place.”
“Yes—ah—yes, of course. Yes, indeed. Are you sure you feel quite well again, Miss Martha?”
“I'm sure. But what did they say when they bought it, Mr. Bangs?”
“Say? Ah, say?... Why, they said—ah—um—they said there was the money and—and I counted it, you know, and—”
“Yes, yes. But didn't they say anything about the stock; about why they bought it, and like that?”
“Why, no... no, I think nothing was—ah—so to speak—ah—said. They—ah—Won't you sit down again, Miss Martha? I think you had better.”
“Sit down! Mr. Bangs, I'm too excited to sit down. I could fly, I think, a good deal easier than I could sit; at least, I feel as if I could. And so they just bought that stock and said nothing more than that? Just bought it?”
“Yes—ah—yes, that's it. They—ah—bought it, you know.”
“It seems strange. What did your cousin say?”
“Ah—my cousin? Cousin Gussie, you mean. Yes, yes, of course. Oh, he said—ah—all sorts of things.”
“Did he? About the stock?”
“Oh, no, not about the stock so much. No, not so much about that, about... a sort of general conversation it was, about—about the weather, and—and the like.”
“The weather? Did he write about the weather in his letter?”
He had for the moment forgotten that his relative was an invalid in the Far West and that Miss Phipps knew it. He turned red, coughed, stammered and then broke out in a series of fragmentary and involved explanations to the effect that Cousin Gussie was—ah—naturally much interested in the weather because of his state of health and—and—She paid little heed, for in the midst of his explaining she interrupted.
“Oh, never mind, never mind,” she said. “It doesn't make one bit of difference and why I asked about it I don't know. You see, Mr. Bangs, I'm not back on earth yet, as you might say, and I don't suppose I shall be for a little while, so you'll have to be patient with me. All I can think of is that now I can live here in this house, for a while longer anyhow, and perhaps always. And I sha'n't have to turn Primmie away. And—and maybe I won't have to lie awake night after night, plannin' how I can do this and do without that—and—and—”
She stopped, her sentence unfinished. Galusha said nothing. A moment later she turned to him.
“Should I write your cousin a letter and thank him, do you think?” she asked.
Galusha's reply was hurriedly given and most emphatic. “Oh, no, no,” he protested. “It will be quite unnecessary, quite. Indeed, no. He—ah—he would not expect it.”
“No, I presume likely he wouldn't. And, after all, it was just a matter of business with his firm. But it wasn't a matter of business with you, Mr. Bangs. And if it hadn't been for you, I—I—Well, I mustn't say any more or—or... Oh, you understand what I want to say, don't you?”
“Now—now, Miss Martha, please. I have done nothing, really, nothing but what any friend would have done.”
“Any friend like you, you mean. I don't know where there are any more such friends, Mr. Bangs.”
“Now, PLEASE. Miss Martha, I—I HOPE you won't mention this again. It will oblige me greatly if you will not. Really, I—I mean it.”
She nodded, slowly. “Yes,” she said, “bein' you, I think you do mean it. So I won't say any more; but I shall think a great deal, Mr. Bangs, and I never shall stop thinkin'.... There! And now what shall I do with all this money? Of course, I'll put it in the bank to-morrow, but what will I do with it to-night? By the way,” she added, “it seems queer they should have paid you in cash instead of a check. Why did they, I wonder?”
Here was a demand for more explaining. Galusha plunged headlong, foundered, and then emerged, like a dog, with an explanation, such as it was, between his teeth.
“They—ah—they thought the money would be safer,” he said.
Martha laughed aloud. “Safer?” she repeated. “Why, that's funny. Perhaps they're right, but I know the only way I shall feel safe between now and bankin' time tomorrow is to stay awake and watch every minute. Oh, I sha'n't do that exactly, of course, but I'm beginnin' to realize the responsibility of havin' riches. Ah hum! I laugh, Mr. Bangs, but you mustn't think it's because I don't realize what you—I mean... well, I guess I laugh because I'm kind of hysterical and—happy. I haven't been so happy for a long, long time. I won't say it again because you don't want me to, but for this once more, thank you, Mr. Bangs.”
As Galusha left her to go to his room, she said: “Now I must go out and get after Primmie again. I'm scared to death that she'll tell everybody from here to Provincetown about my bein' worth a million dollars. She won't make it any LESS than a million, and the chances are it will be consider'ble more.”
“But, Miss Martha, you have already told her not to tell about the money. I heard you tell her just now when you sent her out of the room.”
Martha shrugged her shoulders.
“When you pour water into a sieve,” she said, “it doesn't do much good to tell the sieve not to leak. Father used to say that some folks' heads were built so that whatever was poured into their ears ran right out of their mouths. Primmie's is made that way, I'm afraid. She'll swear she won't tell, and she won't mean to tell, but... Well, good-night, Mr. Bangs.”
Miss Phipps had prophesied that the cares attending the possession of wealth might interfere with her sleep that night. Concerning his own slumbers Galusha made no prophecy, but the said slumbers were broken and scanty, nevertheless. Martha's happiness, her relief, and the kind things she had said to him, all these were pleasant to reflect upon and to remember. Not so pleasant was the thought of the deception he had practiced. Of course, he had deceived for a good purpose and certainly with no idea of personal gain, quite the contrary. But he had been deceitful—and to Martha Phipps, of all people. What would she say if she ever found it out? He reflected upon the amazing number of—ah—fibs he had told her, and the question what would she say if she ever learned of these was even more terrifying in its possibilities. She must not learn of them, she must never, never know that it was his own money which he had brought from Boston, that he, and no one else, had bought that stock of hers.
Here he sat up in bed, having suddenly remembered the certificate for two hundred and fifty shares of Wellmouth Development Company stock which she had handed him when he started for Boston. He had folded it lengthwise and crosswise and had put it in his pocket—and had not thought of it since, until that moment. A cold chill ran down his back. What if—
He scrambled out of bed and, the room being distinctly cool, chills immediately ran up and down other portions of his anatomy. He did not mind those, however, but finding the matches, lighted the lamp and began pawing over his garments, those which he had worn upon his Boston pilgrimage.
The certificate was not in the coat pocket. Galusha gasped. Had he dropped it in the train? Or in the office of Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot? Why, if the last were true, it would be found and traced to him, and Minor and Barbour and, eventually, Cousin Gussie would learn that he....
Here he remembered that Martha had urged him not to put it in his coat pocket but in his pocketbook. Oh, joy! He delved for the pocketbook, opened it—and found no certificate therein.
Oh, dear, dear! Oh, dear! Suppose he had not lost it in Boston. Suppose he had that very evening dropped it in the house here at home, in the sitting room, or the dining room. Suppose Primmie should find it, or Miss Phipps herself. Then she would KNOW that he had deceived her—and lied to her—
And then he remembered that, instead of putting the certificate in his pocketbook, he had found the latter too small for the purpose, and had put the document in the inside pocket of his waistcoat. And in that waistcoat pocket he found it.
So that was all right, all right so far; but the fact remained that, instead of the troublesome thing—damning evidence of his guilt and deception—reposing safely in the vaults of a Boston bank, where he had intended putting it, it was here, in the house, in the house of Miss Martha Phipps, who might find it at any time.
He tried various hiding places, the drawers of his bureau, the table drawer, under the straw matting in the corner, but none seemed satisfactorily secure. Under the matting was, at first thought, ideal, but, after secreting it there and getting into bed, he remembered that Martha had declared his room needed new matting and, if ever she could afford that cost, new matting it should have. Having come into possession of five thousand dollars, she might feel that she could now afford it. He climbed, shivering, out of bed again, resurrected the certificate and hid it under his pillow, an orthodox but safe hiding place for that night only. The next morning he wrapped it in a summer undergarment and placed the said garment at the bottom of a pile of similar intimacies in his bureau drawer. And each night of the following week, before retiring, he dug it out to make sure of its safety.
The day after her boarder's return from Boston, Martha went over to Wellmouth Centre. The bank there had charge of her account, such as it was, and she wished to have it take charge of the, to her, huge sum of real money which Mr. Bangs had brought. She told the cashier that she was desirous of speaking with him on a matter of business, and he invited her into his little room at the end of the counter. There she took from her “Boston bag” a brown paper parcel and, unwrapping the brown paper, disclosed the five thousand dollars.
Cashiers of small town banks know the true financial strength and weakness of dwellers in those towns, just as the doctors know their physical ones. Mr. Edgar Thacher, which was the cashier's name in this instance, knew how much of an estate Cap'n Jim Phipps had left his daughter and how that estate was divided as to investments. So he was surprised when Martha revealed the money.
“Good land, Martha!” he exclaimed. “What's happened? Haven't gone into the counterfeiting trade, have you?”
Martha smilingly shook her head. “No, Edgar,” she said. “It's too late in life for me to begin learnin' new trades, I guess. Just count that, will you, please? I want to make sure it's all there and that I didn't really have only half of it and dream the rest.”
The cashier counted the money. “Five thousand, I make it,” he said.
“That's what it ought to be. Now will you put that to my account? I don't know how long it'll stay there—the whole of it not very long, I'm afraid—but it will be earnin' a little interest while it does stay.”
“Yes, sure. Well, Martha, it's none of my business, of course, but, as long as you say you haven't been counterfeiting, I wish you would give me your receipt for making money. Anybody that can make five thousand in one lump these hard times is doing well.”
Martha shook her head once more. She and the cashier were old friends. “No receipt to give, Edgar,” she said. “I wish there was; I'd be busy usin' it, I tell you. I just sold somethin' I owned, that's all, and got a good deal better price than I ever expected to. In fact, I had about given up hope of ever gettin' a cent. But there, I mustn't talk so much. You'll deposit that to my account, won't you, Edgar? And, if you SHOULD see your way clear to pay seven or eight per cent interest instead of four, or whatever you do pay, don't bother to write and ask me if I'll take it, because you'll only be wastin' your time.... Eh? Why, good gracious, Jethro! What are you doin' over here?”
The captain's big frame blocked the doorway of the cashier's office. He had opened that door without knocking, because it was his habit to open doors that way. Captain Jethro Hallett's position as keeper of the Gould's Bluffs light was not an exalted or highly paid one, but his influence in Wellmouth and its vicinity was considerable, nevertheless. He was accounted a man of means, he had always been—more especially in the years before his wife's death and the break in health which followed it—a person of shrewd business ability and keenness in a trade, and even now, when some of the townsfolk grinned behind his back and told stories of his spiritualistic obsessions, they were polite and deferential to his face. As a matter of fact, it would have been extremely impolitic to be otherwise than deferential to him. Captain Jeth was quite aware of his worth and expected deference.
He was as surprised to see his neighbor as she was to see him.
“Why, hello, Martha!” he grunted. “What fetched you here?”
“I asked you first, Cap'n Jeth, but it doesn't make any difference. My feet brought me as far as the corner and Ras Beebe's grocery cart brought me the rest of the way. I had planned to come in the train, but Ras saved me the trouble—AND the fare. He's goin' back in a few minutes, so I've got to hurry.”
“Humph! But what did you come here FOR?”
“Oh, I had a little business with Edgar and the bank. Excuse me, Jethro. Edgar...”
She stooped and whispered to the cashier. He nodded.
“Yes, Martha, of course,” he said. “You've got your book? All right. Back in a minute, Cap'n.”
He picked up the pile of money from the desk, took from Miss Phipps' hand the pass book she handed him, and together they stepped out into the public room. Captain Jethro, whose eyes had caught sight of the bills, leaned forward and peered through the little grating above Mr. Thacher's desk. He saw the cashier and Martha standing by the teller's window. The former said something and handed the teller the bank book and the roll of bills. A moment later the teller, having counted the money and made an entry in the book, handed the latter back to the lady.
“Five thousand,” he said, and his tone was not low. “There you are, Miss Phipps. Thank you.”
When, having escorted the lady to the door, Thacher came back to his private office, he found the light keeper sitting in the armchair reserved for customers and pulling thoughtfully at his beard.
“Well, Cap'n,” said Mr. Thacher, “what can I do for you?”
Captain Jethro crossed his legs. “I come over to cash a couple of checks I got by mail,” he said. “Had plenty of time so I thought I'd drop in and see you a minute.”
“Oh, yes, yes. Glad to see you.”
“Um-hm. Ain't so glad to see me as you was to see Martha Phipps, I guess likely.Iain't depositin' any five thousand dollars. 'Twas five thousand she just deposited, wasn't it?”
The cashier was rather annoyed. He did not answer at once. His visitor repeated the question.
“Martha just put five thousand in the bank, didn't she?” he asked.
“Why—yes. Did she tell you she was going to?”
“No. I heard Eldridge say five thousand when he give her back her bank book. Five thousand is a lot of money. Where'd she get it from?”
“I don't know, Cap'n, I'm sure. Little more spring-like out to-day, isn't it?”
“Um-hm. Martha been borrerin' from the bank, has she?”
“No.”
“Didn't know but she might have mortgaged the Phipps' place. Ain't done that, you say?”
“No. At least, if she has she didn't tell me of it. How are things over at the lighthouse?”
“All right enough. I don't hardly believe she could raise more'n three thousand on a mortgage, anyhow.... Humph! Five thousand is a sight of money, too.... Didn't she tell you nothin' about how she got it?”
Thacher's annoyance increased. The ordinary caller displaying such persistent curiosity would have been dismissed unceremoniously; but Jethro Hallett was not to be dismissed that way. The captain owned stock in the bank and, before his illness, his name had been seriously considered to fill the first vacancy in its list of directors.
“Must have told you SOMETHIN' about how she got hold of all that money,” persisted the light keeper. “What did she say to you, anyway, Ed?”
“She said—she said—Oh, well, she said she had sold something she owned and had got the five thousand for it.”
“Humph! I want to know! Sold somethin', eh? What was it she sold?”
“She didn't say, Cap'n. All she said was that she had sold it and got the five thousand. Oh, yes, she did say that it was a bigger price than she ever expected to get and that there was a time when she never expected to get a cent.”
“Humph! I want to know! Funny she should sell anything without comin' to me first. She generally comes to ask my advice about such things.... Humph!... She didn't sell the house? No, I'd a-known if she had done that. And what else.... Humph!...”
He pulled at his beard in silence for a moment. The teller, a brisk young man, possessed of a profound love of mischief and a corresponding lack of reverence, entered the office.
“Oh, excuse me,” he said. “I thought you was alone, Mr. Thacher.” Then, with a wink at his superior over the light keeper's tousled gray head, he observed, “Well, Cap'n Jeth, what's this I hear about Marietta Hoag? They tell me she's left the Spiritualists and gone over to Holiness chapel. Is it so?”
Jethro came out of his reverie. His deep-set eyes flashed and his big fist pounded the office table. No, it was not so. It was a lie. Who said it? Who was responsible for starting such sacrilegious, outrageous yarns? Marietta Hoag was a woman called and chosen to receive and give out revelations from on high. The Holiness crowd was a crew of good-for-nothin', hollerin' hard-shells. By the everlastin'—
He blew out of the office and out of the bank, rumbling and spitting fire like a volcano. The teller and the cashier watched him go. Then the former said:
“That's the way to get rid of him, Mr. Thacher. He'll set 'round and talk you to death if you give him half a chance. When you want him to go, tell him somebody at the other end of the town has been running down the Spiritualists. He'll be so anxious to get there and heave 'em overboard that he'll forget to stop and finish what he was saying here.”
Which may or may not have been true, but the fact remains that the light keeper did not entirely forget what he and the cashier said concerning Martha Phipps' surprising bank deposit. And the next morning, as Martha was walking up the lane from the village, where she had been on a supply-purchasing excursion, she heard heavy footsteps and, turning, saw her neighbor tramping toward her, his massive figure rolling, as it always did when in motion, from side to side like a ship in a seaway.
“Why, hello, Jethro!” she exclaimed. Captain Jethro merely nodded. His first remark was a question, and very much to the point.
“Look here, Martha,” he demanded. “Have you sold that Development stock of yours?”
Martha stared at him. For a moment she was inclined to believe in the truth of the light keeper's “spirit revelations.”
“Why—why, Jethro!” she gasped. The captain, gazing at her keenly beneath his shaggy brows, seemed to find his answer in her face.
“Humph!” he observed. “You have sold it, ain't you? Well, by the everlastin'!”
“Why—why, Jethro! What are you talkin' about?”
“About that two hundred and fifty shares of Wellmouth Development of yours. You've sold it, ain't you, Martha? And you must have got par for it, too. Did the Trumet Trust Company folks buy it?”
But Miss Phipps was recovering from her surprise. She waited a moment before replying and, when she did reply, her tone was as crisp, if not as domineering, as her interrogator's.
“See here, Jethro,” she said; “you're takin' a good many things for granted, aren't you?”
“No, I don't cal'late I am. I know you've sold somethin' and got five thousand dollars for it. I see you deposit the five thousand, myself, and Ed Thacher told me, after I pumped it out of him, that you said you'd sold somethin' you owned and got a good price when you didn't know as you'd ever get a cent. Now, you ain't sold your place because I'd know if you had, and it ain't worth five thousand, anyway. The other stocks and bonds you've got ain't—”
But Martha interrupted.
“Jethro,” she said, sharply, “I just said that you were takin' a good many things for granted. You are. One of 'em is that you can talk to me as if I was Zach Bloomer or a fo'masthand on your old schooner. I'm neither of those and I don't care to be talked to in that way. Another is that what I chose to do with my property is your business. It isn't, it's mine. I may have sold that stock or any other, or the house or the barn or the cat, as far as that goes, but if I have or haven't it is my affair. And I think you'd better understand that before we talk any more.”
She turned and walked on again. Captain Jethro's eyes flashed. It had been some time since any one had addressed him in that manner. However, women were women and business was business, and the captain was just then too intent upon the latter to permit the whims of the former to interfere. He swallowed his temper and strode after his neighbor.
“Martha,” he said, complainingly, “I don't see as you've got any call to talk to me that way. I've been a pretty good friend to you, seems to me, and I was your father's friend, his chum, as you might say. Seems as if I had—well, a right to be interested in—in what you do.”
Martha paused. After all, there was truth in what he said. He had been her father's close friend, and, no doubt, he meant to be hers. And he was Lulie's father, and not well, not quite his old self mentally or physically. Perhaps she should make allowances.
“Well, all right, Cap'n Jeth,” she said. “It wasn't what you said so much as it was how you said it. Now will you tell me why you're so dreadfully anxious to know how I got that five thousand dollars I deposited over to the bank yesterday?”
The light keeper pulled at his beard; the latter was so thick as to make a handful, even for one of his hands. “Well,” he said, somewhat apologetically, “you see, Martha, it's like this: IF you sold them Development shares of yours—and I swan I can't think of anything else you own that would sell for just that money—IF you sold 'em, I say, I'd like to know how you done it. I've got four hundred shares of that stock I'd like to sell fust-rate—fust-rate I would.”
She had not entirely forgiven him for his intrusion in her affairs and his manner of the moment before. She could not resist giving him a dig.
“Cap'n Jeth,” she said, “I don't see why you need to worry. I've heard you say a good many times that you had promises from—well, from the spirits that you were goin' to sell your Development stock and at a profit. All you had to do, you said, was wait. Now, you see,Icouldn't wait.”
The captain nodded in satisfaction. “So 'TWAS the Development you sold,” he growled. “I figgered out it couldn't be nothin' else.”
Martha scarcely knew whether to frown or laugh. Some of her pity concerning the old man's mental state had been, obviously, unnecessary. He was still sharp enough in business matters.
“Well,” she said, with both laugh and frown, “suppose it was, what of it?”
“Why, just this, Martha: If there's anything goin' on on the inside of the Development Company I want to know it.”
“There isn't anything goin' on so far as I know.”
“Then who bought your stock? The Denboro Trust Company folks?”
“No. They don't know a thing about it.”
“'Twan't that blasted Pulcifer?”
“No. I should hope not. Now don't ask any more, because I sha'n't tell you. It's a secret, that's all, and it's got to stay that way.”
He looked at her. She returned his look and nodded. She meant what she said and he reluctantly recognized the fact.
“Humph! Well, all right, Martha,” he growled. “But—but will you do this much for me? Will you ask these folks—whoever 'twas bought your two hundred and fifty—if they don't want my four hundred? If they're really buyin', I shouldn't be surprised if they would want it. If they bought it just as a favor to you, and are goin' to hang on and wait—why—why then, maybe they'd do a favor to a friend of yours and your father's afore you. Maybe they will, you can't tell. And you can tell 'em I've had word from—from over yonder that it's all goin' to turn out right. You ask 'em if they don't want to buy my stock, will you, Martha?”
Martha took time for reflection. Then she said: “Cap'n Jeth, if I do ask 'em that, will you promise not to tell a soul a word about my sellin' my stock, or about the money, or anything of the kind? Will you promise that?”
The light keeper nodded. “Sartin sure,” he said. “I'll promise you, Martha.”
“All right, I'll ask, but you mustn't count on anything comin' from it.”
The captain's brows drew together. “What I count on,” he said, solemnly, “is a higher promise than yours or mine, Martha Phipps. What we do down here will only be what them up aloft want us to do. Don't you forget that.”
They parted at the Phipps' gate. Captain Jethro walked moodily home. Lulie met him at the door. She was wearing her hat and coat.
“I'm going up to the village, father,” she said. “I have some errands to do. I'll be back pretty soon.”
Her father watched her as she walked away. The thought crossed his mind that possibly Nelson Howard might be visiting the village that forenoon. He called her name, and she turned and came back.
“What is it, father?” she asked.
Jethro hesitated. He passed a hand across his forehead. His head felt tired. Somehow he didn't want to talk any more. Even as important a topic as Nelson Howard did not arouse his interest.
“Oh, nothin', nothin',” he assured. “Cal'late maybe I'll lay down and turn in a little spell afore dinner. Is Zach on deck?”
“Yes, he is out in the kitchen, or was a minute ago. Primmie was over on an errand and I heard their tongues going. Shall I speak to Zach, father?”
He told her no, and went into the house. There was a couch in the dining room and he stretched himself upon it. The head of the couch was near the door leading to the kitchen. That door was closed, but from behind it sounded voices, voices which were audible and distinct. A dispute seemed to be in progress between Mr. Bloomer and Miss Cash and, although Zacheus continued to grumble on in an even key, Primmie's tone became higher and shriller with each retort.
“I tell you 'tis so, Zach Bloomer.... Well, maybe 'twan't a hundred and fifty thousand, but I bet you 'twas more money than you ever see in YOUR life. So now!”
The assistant light keeper was heard to cough. Primmie seemed to discern a hint of skepticism even in the cough.
“Oh, you can set there and keep on turnin' up your nose and—and coughin',” she declared, “but—”
Zacheus interrupted to say that he hardly ever turned up his nose when he coughed.
“Seems to come handier to turn it down, Posy,” he said.
“Oh, be still, foolish! Well, anyhow, it's true, every word of it. I see more money at one time and in one—er—er junk, as you might say, than ever I see afore—yes, or I bet you ever see neither, Zach Bloomer.”
“We-ll, course what I ever see never amounted to much, but if it's more than YOU see, Rosebud, then it must have been consider'ble of a lot. Over in them Mashpaug woods, where you hail from, money kind of grows on the bushes, like huckleberries, I presume likely. Martha Phipps been over there berryin', has she?”
“No, she ain't. Besides, I never said Miss Martha brought the money into the house. All's I said was that 'twas in there and I see it with my own eyes.”
“Sho! With your own eyes, eh? Well, well! What do you cal'late 'twould have looked like if you'd borrered somebody else's eyes? Say, Posy, was it you fetched the billion and a half, or whatever 'twas, into the house?”
“Me? ME with all that money? My savin' soul!”
“Well, who did fetch it? Santy Claus?”
“I sha'n't tell you. I promised Miss Martha I wouldn't tell one word about that money and I ain't goin' to.”
“Hooray, Posy! That's the way to talk! Well, now, be honest about it: What did you have for supper night afore last? Mince pie, was it? Why didn't you eat another slice? Then you'd have dreamed about a mackerel keg full of di'monds, most likely.”
Captain Jethro, trying to fall asleep on the couch in the dining room, turned over in disgust and raised himself upon an elbow preparatory to shouting an order for silence. But Primmie's next speech caught his attention and the order was not given.
“Dreamed!” retorted the indignant young woman. “Are you tryin' to tell me I only dreamed about that money, Zacheus Bloomer? Huh! My Lord of Isrul! If you'd seen that great big piled-up heap of bills layin' right there on the table in our settin' room where Mr. Bangs put 'em, I guess you'd have said 'dreams' and more, too. Ten dollar bills there was and twenties and—and thirties and forties, for all I know.”
“That so? Right where Mr. Bangs put 'em, eh? Now I KNOW you was dreamin', Pansy Blossom. That little dried-up Bangs man ain't worth more'n ten cents, if that.”
“He ain't? How do you know he ain't?”
“Same as I know when that Lucy Larcom tomcat of Martha's has been in a fight, by the looks of him. Look at the Bangs man's clothes, and—and his hat—and—why, Godfreys mighty, he can't afford to get his hair cut oftener than once in three months! Anyhow, he don't. And you stand there and tell me he come cruisin' in t'other night and commenced sheddin' million dollar bills all over the furniture. Where'd he get 'em to? Dig 'em up over in the Baptist graveyard?”
“No, he never. He got 'em up to Boston. Leastways, I guess he did, 'cause that's where he went. And, besides, what do you know about how much he's worth? He may look kind of—of ratty, but all the same he's got rich relations. Why, one of his relations is head of the biggest broke—I mean, brokin' and bank place there is in Boston. Cabot, Bancroft and—and Thingumbob is the name of it. And Miss Martha told me 'twas—”
There was much more of this and the listener on the dining room couch heard it all. He remained on that couch until Miss Cash, at the back door of the kitchen, delivered her triumphant farewell.
“So there now, Zach Bloomer,” she said, “I guess you believe now I didn't dream it. And you needn't ask any more questions because I sha'n't tell you a single word. I promised Miss Martha I wouldn't never tell and I'm goin' to keep my promise.”
That evening Martha approached her lodger on the subject of the possibility of selling the light keeper's Development holdings for him. To say the least, she received no encouragement. Galusha was quite emphatic in his expression of disbelief in that possibility.
“Oh, dear me, no, Miss Martha,” he stammered. “I—ah—I feel quite sure it would be unwise to—ah—attempt such a thing. You see—ah—you see—my cousin is—is—”
“I know, he's sick, poor man, and shouldn't be disturbed. You're right, of course, Mr. Bangs. It was only that Cap'n Jeth had always been a good friend of father's and mine and I thought if Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot really were buyin' the stock perhaps they might like to buy his. But I can see why you wouldn't want to trouble Mr. Cabot again just now. I'm sorry I mentioned it to you; I'm afraid I have made you nervous.”
Galusha was nervous, certainly, and showed it. He protested, however, that he was quite all right really, and, as his landlady did not mention the subject again, he recovered a portion of his equilibrium. And during the following week he gradually gained more and more confidence. The telltale certificate hidden in his bureau drawer was, of course, a drawback to his peace of mind, and the recollection of his recent outbreak of prevarication and deception was always a weight upon his conscience. But, to offset these, there was a changed air about the Phipps' home and its inmates which was so very gratifying that, if it did not deaden that conscience, it, at least, administered to it an effective dose of soothing syrup.